Angel On Your Shoulder
by MessengerOfDreams
Summary: So many others have left her arena. You shouldn't find it nearly as hard to do the same.


You don't have time in a bottle, but you think you know when a story has ended.

Everything in the room is empty save for a pile of papers resting on a wooden desk, one you're certain everyone has. These papers come from all over the world, and most of them are unopened. Either way, the pile's bigger than the one suitcase you came into the tournament with and the one you're leaving with.

You don't admit it to anyone, but you never read the fanmail anymore. It's not out of disrespect to them, you just know how slow mail travels nowadays. You're certain in those letters are the support of strangers who mean well. You read enough, and it all sort of blends together- though that's not why you don't read them anymore. It's a sweet sentiment- you know you'll never meet these people and truth be told you're not sure why they care, but to have a team in your corner is comforting.

Still, news travels slowly, and you know these were sent when there were fifty-eight competitors and counting ready to compete, even if they arrived when there were twenty-four left- an elite group you are not a part of.

As you zip up your suitcase, your heart is heavy. Not even one letter, even the sweetest, most encouraging, or funniest one, is going to make it home with you. You know how much has changed between then and now, and the letters sent before everything after don't mean the same now that you haven't made it, now that they're all for naught, now that all of those rooting for you have seen you fall. You feel a twinge of guilt, but it's probably disappointment more than anything- a familiar you're all too close to.

Not that feelings are the easiest for you to discern. Peach saw you digging through a few letters you'd gotten that day. Nosy yet easily entertained, Peach absentmindedly picked up a few you'd already read, and boasted that you were possibly the most popular person competing (leave it to Peach to praise you no matter the occasion). You were sure she didn't mean it at first, but you saw those around you picking through their letters, in piles smaller than yours. Your immediate reaction was guilt, then confusion- confusion you never worked out. 

(Of course, clear as day, your selective awareness hit like a gloved fist. You saw her digging through a small handful of letters, amongst the smallest there, and giggling at every one before tucking them inside her tank top or jeans pocket. You wondered what the letters of the niche players like her must have looked like, but you never asked, out of fear that they might run out.)

You were a swordsman, of which there were many. People like Link were here for several tournaments, and surely had a larger fanbase. There were people who'd done better- the mercenaries from Star Fox consistently placed highly, while you'd never gotten higher than the mid-twenties. You had no clue what made you special. You fought just as you'd learned throughout your life and you hadn't even the slightest clue how to mold yourself.

Still, it was motivation, a distant drive you still feel from time to time when your body remembers you don't have any more matches ahead of you. Your mental calendar falls apart when you realize that it's been completely wiped out with one good attack. From a goddamned smack-talking hedgehog, of all things.

You wonder if she saw. You wonder if she knows. If she's just as disappointed as everyone else. If she's just as disappointed as your friends, the fans who wrote your letters. You wonder if she's as disappointed as you are.

 **-MoD-**

It was never the tournament that made you stick around with her, but it was a damn good excuse.

You remember training with her, and that's why you rationalize that it shouldn't matter to her. She claims despite bottoming out in the early rounds that training was where she belonged regardless. That's where she was from the beginning- training with everyone, trying to make herself better. When that failed, she still didn't leave, like she was looking for a purpose. Even as everyone around her left when they were out of the tournament, she still stayed. You have to imagine that she won't be too disappointed to lose you- even though she checked on everyone who had an absence, you couldn't think of it any other way- work was just work.

Still, you can't imagine that'll make it any easier when you realize you'll miss her the most.

You leave your suitcase in your room when the memory of her hits you. You remember the fights you had, all of them good practice matches. Bottom of the F-Tier be damned, she knew exactly how to keep time with you. You called aggressive, and she was in your face until your sword moved her away. When you needed to practice on your distance approach (admittedly not your strongest suit) she was far enough away to pelt you with whatever supplies she kept handy. Someone who knew exactly what someone needed should not have been damned so early. You were far too involved in the tournament to see for yourself how she lost, but leaving it a mystery makes it all the more unfathomable- and you enjoy that.

When you punched that coat of arms and it engulfed you from any pain from the attacks, it mystified you, because it was the closest you got to being invincible. You fought fearlessly against most, because not feeling anything was a superpower you envied, and if you had a way you'd smuggle them out with you. It might have been the only way anyone got through fights, but it was the only way you got through the tournament at all.

You'd held far too many dead to feel as alive as you used to be.

Because of that, the more you practiced, the weaker you felt yourself become. It wasn't the same amount of reckless abandon you still showed in tournament matches. It was something different that hit you the first time she hit the safety net beneath the tournament stages as you trained and got lifted back up by the transporter. You were a big guy, so you landed hard enough to nearly rip a hole in the safety nets, so you can't imagine what it felt like for her. You saw her step back onto the stage, ponytail clinging to her pale skin by way of sweat and hard work, and you wanted to apologize. Somehow, you kept quiet, but you remember seeing exhaustion in her eyes. You don't know if you ever saw the sting of defeat in her eyes, but you saw the look of someone you knocked around hard enough to break in half were the coat of arms not a factor, and you felt immense remorse.

She insisted you didn't worry about her, but despite the fact that she never seemed more alive than when you practiced, you could never fight as hard as you wanted. Strangely, you never found a new trainer. Maybe you should have. Maybe she wanted you to- she would never say. You couldn't leave her like everyone else did.

Now, it's the immense weight on your shoulders that make it far too easy to leave. In fact, it makes it seem like the easiest thing in the goddamned world. Almost everyone else does it, your time is up, no one's making you stay, and God only knows how busy she must be.

You still can't do it.

 **-MoD-**

It's when you've returned to your room, staring at your suitcase to dare it to move for you, that you remember the best moment for you, a moment that made you feel more invincible than the coat of arms could ever manage. You remember fighting to the last stock against… (you take a full minute trying to piece their form together in your memories) ah yes. Falco Lombardi. A serial medalist or favorite to win, you imagine there were reasons that he wasn't at the prime he maintained, but whatever they were, they didn't make the battlefield. You remember him ripping you to shreds last tournament, and were dedicated to making this a different case.

The fight was long and brutal. You could feel your armor cracking beneath the coat of arms, daring to break. You were exhausted and delirious in a way that barely had you operating throughout the match. Yet, you still remember every stock evaporating away like a tiny little miracle you barely had the wherewithal to question. You remember grabbing the edge via Aether one last time and watching Falco falling, scream-first, into the pit, moving you forward, and damning the odds in a way that no one expected.

You remember catching up on rest in your nesting room, sloppily splayed on the couches that lined the walls beneath clocks, displays, and Tournament TVs that always kept you informed. You'd not built the amount of social connections to earn a lot of visitors the way Falco's talkative self had. Still, you got a few visitors you barely remember through your haze of victory. They congratulated you, a tinge of awe audible on all of their voices. Even Falco popped in, also woozy, and congratulated you with a small volley of playful, well-meaning swear words that were as native to Falco as English. He didn't break his grin the entire time, and you hadn't a clue why he wasn't disappointed, why he was speaking to you at all, why his loss didn't mean to you what it did to him.

Eventually, he left to go and get shitfaced or something- you can't remember too well but it's Falco so it's not a horrid guess- and she came in, your last visitor. Your armor lay by your side, cracked and in need of repair, the shoulder piece completely detached. She'd never visited before, but she still sat across from you. You didn't open your eyes much, but there she was, clearly tired from what you'd recognize from the sweat and the clung hair you'd found so challengingly comfortable were some training thoughts. Here she was still, eyes on you and your damaged armor after the fight of your life, taking you in, not knowing you were used to her enough to recognize things about her that you weren't sure even she knew.

The way her smile was never as tired as her eyes, and ten times as effortless as anything you could ever hope to do. The way she never bothered to unpin the hair from the skin it clung to, like it was a badge of honor. The way that she crossed her legs while she sat there, watching you intently, still taking her cues from you, like she understood you. The way she clearly meant it when she told you in her measured, just-energetic-enough training voice, that you did a fantastic job. These were things you can't imagine she thought of, but that you remember clear as day even when you stretch to remember your competitor.

You absently remember motioning to the spot on the couch next to you before you could stop yourself. It shakes you out of your haze of memories that distracted you from the choices you have yet to make. All you remember is that she didn't sit next to you. You don't know if she didn't notice or if she noticed and declined, and you can't decide whether being turned down or missed entirely was the worst part.

You slowly begin to take off your armor, so suited were you for the journey home. It feels solid, complete, fixed, and you remember. You take it off and sit it next to the suitcase, fallen completely into indecision. Only when you recognize it do you remember one last thing. You remember forging the armor at home with the aid of a blacksmith you knew who excelled at these things. You hated not doing things yourself. Maybe it was your need to know it all, to experience it all, to help others help you, that drove you to that. You knew the metals this was made out of, and apparently it wasn't strong enough. You can sense where the cracks used to be even if they've been paved out by now. Finally, you trace to where the armor still shows signs of breaking off into something different.

That's not what you remember. You expected for the remainder of the tournament to have an exposed shoulder. You expected to go into training ready to compensate for that. Now, all you can see is a new piece of metal where the old broke off. It's a different color- silver compared to the dark gray of the rest- but it got the job done when you didn't.

You sigh, unable to take your eyes off of it, and it does it for you. You're no more a part of the tournament or even the mansion than you were yesterday, but you rest on your bed. It's been three days since your last match, and the three days have been longer than ever, but everything else stays the same without you- the people, the tournament, those goddamned fan letters. Even as popular as you were, as memorable, as apparently standout and worthy, you're still not sure you're going to leave any impression on this place.

Right now, that doesn't matter. You've got the rest of your life to get over it. What hurts now can't hurt forever, and you've been hit hard. What sticks around is regret, loss, when you let go of something that could have lasted longer than time can count, and somehow does anyways- with or without you.

You're so exhausted that only one look at the silver shoulderblade is enough- like a hypnotic, it lulls you to sleep.

 **-MoD-**

Pretending there's nothing going on your head was always the easy part. You didn't always get it in a complex sense; it wasn't stupidity, it was practicality, it was simplicity, and even if it wasn't healthy, you relied on it. As you walk through the halls, everything looks to be fine. You're addressed by Zelda, who gives condolences for the last match. You know it can't matter to her, as she was the first out- a fate you were lucky to avoid- but she holds her hand too long on your shoulder and you walk away, mystified as to why she cared.

You brush by a few more people and make polite talk with them. Some are too far into the tournament to notice anything beyond their peripheral; some seem to be experts on you but falsely wish you the most flowery apologies and linger a little too long around on you. Some don't bring it up at all, as if it never happened, and for those moments you can believe it too.

Then, someone else has an apology you cannot imagine they mean to you- the same one you can't imagine they meant to Mac, to Falco, to her. All it does is remind you of your own quandary, and how it should make sense to anyone with two brain cells except for you. You remember an empty nesting room, the moment what happened on the TVs didn't matter anymore and you shut them off. You remember replaying the loss in your head, rematches littering your waking moments. You remember immediately packing that suitcase, how it seemed ever smaller as the letters got bigger even after your loss. You just can't remember the time between then and now while you failed to progress.

You eventually find your way outside of the training room, and you realize you're waiting for her. Little Mac and Doctor Mario are also waiting out with you. Curiously, you ask what for, and quickly they respond that they left some clothes in here. You decide it doesn't matter and instead wait absently. You don't mean to listen in on their conversation, but boredom and anxiety sets in and it's all you have, so casually you rest against the wall as Mac explains to the good Doctor that the Doc he knew, Marcelo Louis, was not in fact a doctor.

Dr. Mario, who Mac addresses as Finn (which is how you learn that both Mario competitors are not one and the same) has a good laugh at this and, sensing you have to be listening, asks you if you find this as funny as you do. You don't respond, not sure if it's polite or not, and listen to Finn laugh again as Mac explains that Doc would have to be the most overweight physician out there were that his profession. You have no clue what about candy bars and mistaken identity is this funny, but you wish you understood it the way that Finn did.

Doc Louis remains the subject between the two friends, and you tune it out except for a few absent words that pique your interest and then delete themselves from memory just as fast. You watch the clock on a nearby wall until you see her walk up, probably none the wiser, and suddenly the world wakes up with you.

"Well," she remarks with some surprise at the three of you. "It's not often I get the early birds. At least," she adds, poking Mac in the chest, making you smirk. "Not you two. What brings you over here?"

"Just realized I haven't emptied my things," he explains.

"Oh, yes!" Finn adds. "I've been forgetful as well. Thankfully Mac reminded me."

"Sounds great," she responds with a smile creasing her skin, even though she already looks tired. "It's been a bit of a mess in the lockers back here. Feel free to take all the time you need."

"Sorry, Jax," Mac replies quickly as she opens the door. She shakes her head, letting them in. Already talking to each other again, the two gentlemen are out of sight. You realize, amused, that she hasn't had to ask why you've showed up here at opening time- even as you've lost. You then wonder if she knows yet. Surely she has to, right?

You step in, and she closes the door behind you. It doesn't take her long to notice. "Doesn't look like you have any armor on you."

A little too defensively, you reply "I can assure you it's in fine shape back in my room."

She laughs quickly. "You say that as if I'd expect less. That just makes me wonder, what's brought you over here? Your locker's quite scarily clean- at least compared to those two."

You recall tripping on white coats and more boxer shorts than you've ever been okay with and chuckle. "That's true," you admit. You replay her first couple of sentences in your head, and remember why you're here. It takes the air out of your lungs, because you haven't planned this far ahead. Instantly, she knows, and she's a little taken aback, but her hand is on your shoulder. Her eyes are sad, but her smile, not as genuine as usual, begs fruitlessly to differ.

"It's okay, big cat," she tells you. "You did an impressive job."

You clear your throat, and her hand next to your neck feels like fire, but for once you like the sensation of feeling. Still, you remember what you'd promised to say once upon a time, only when you apologize, it comes off a thousand times clumsier- barely scraping by your throat at all.

She gives you a quizzical look. "Sorry? I should be saying as much to you."

You shake your head. "It was on me. I didn't make it, and…" You haven't made it this far. Somehow you figured when you apologized for losing, it would make absolutely perfect sense. Now, you've absolutely lost track of your thoughts. You feel her hand on your shoulder pressing you to explain yourself, to cleanse yourself, to be the person you presented to her- if that is you.

"I wanted to thank you for the shoulderblade," you continue. "It was well appreciated. I was able to cleanly weld it on." You don't know why that last part wasn't a given, but there you go.

"Of course," she says, finally letting you go and working her way to the front desk. Littering it are plenty of little trinkets from different fighters- a snowglobe of New York that had to be Mac's, a vase from frontrunner Sheik that she kept flowers from Lucas in, a pair of Goggles from Wario of all people, a plastic shovel from the Villager that you can't imagine ending up anywhere like this. What you can't see is anything from you- because you don't know what to give someone like her that'd be worth it- or any letters, like the type that plagued your room like an endless reminder.

You watch her sit down and log into her computer, feeling out of place. You feel like you shouldn't be impeding progress- surely that's why everyone else left?- yet you can't move. You watch her release the computer mouse and pick up what appears to be a yo-yo. "Take a look at this," she says. "Ness left this for me one day. It's got some use on it- that's the best part."

"Is it tricky to use?" you ask. "He is quite small."

She laughs. "I wouldn't know. I've just kept it around here. I think it's neat." As she resumes work, you wonder how long the things on her desk have gone unused- just there for her to remember those she's coached, whether they come back or not. Eventually, Mac and Finn come out, still chatting about Doc Louis. You hear Mac talking about how it was tricky to box against Doc because he never fought against someone he cared about that way, and he leaves before ever explaining how he managed.

Still, she notices you haven't left. She doesn't say anything, but you imagine the cogs working in her head. Eventually, she gives you a hard right look and says "I don't see any armor on you, but I imagine you're here for a fight?"

You weren't, but you shrug with a nod, because it gives you more time to think.

"I'm flattered," she says, and apparently it's enough so that she presses a button on her monitor and walks towards you. "I'm just surprised you're sticking around. Most people don't when they don't need to be here anymore."

You don't know how to tell her you still need to be here.

 **-MoD-**

The fight isn't right from the start and you know it.

You go wordlessly, and she adapts before she can show alarm. You've got a sword on hand but it feels far too small and you know it's betrayed you. You aren't swinging as hard as you used to, and even that was never hard enough, so you feel like you're not here at all.

Maybe it's your armor, maybe it's your imagination, but you feel the same from her. Even the coat of arms isn't armor enough for her. She isn't putting up a fight, and she seems far too distant for your liking. All you can think of while you train for nothing is how strong the fights were before- if not from you, from her. She demanded your best. She was too close for comfort. She was easy to read but dangerous to approach. Now, you two could barely dig a claw at each other.

You call it quits far too early and apologize again. She punches her Coat of Arms away and you two are left on a stage that's gone dark. By now, she presses a button that brings an elevated walkway up to take you two back to the office, usually exhausted but fulfilled. Then the next match could never come soon enough.

Instead, you look towards the door, which remains closed, barely illuminated by residual light. You somehow know it's not opening until she says it opens, and that scares you. You take a seat on the stage, feet kicking off of the edge, wondering if it's worth it to drop into the safety net and take that way out.

Instead, she sits next to you, feet dangling off into nothingness. You struggle to see her, but you certainly can feel her. She's finally taking up your offer, but the circumstances aren't anywhere near right.

"I'm going to venture a guess," she begins, cheerful on the surface, but the consonants coming out harder than usual. "You didn't pop in for a fight this morning."

You shake your head. "I did not. Apologies."

She nods, but something still isn't right. If it were all that was to be said, you'd be on your way out. There's more.

"So," she saks. "Why are you here, Ike?"

You want to tell her that you've forgotten, or even that there was no reason, but your breath catches with every excuse. All you can think of is the pile of mail you don't know what to do with and the one packed suitcase with your armor waiting by your bed.

"I wanted to say goodbye," you admit.

"You wouldn't be the first, and you won't be the last," she replies. "You don't need to worry about me; I'll keep busy while I'm here."

You nod, as if it that were easy. "I guess I should have seen that coming." As you say that, it hurts to think about- that you were another fighter to her, that you'd enter and leave the same way that Mac and Finn did earlier today, that even while you try and shape up what she meant to you, she'd have let your memory go faster than anyone else since you spent so long skirting by her, afraid to make contact, that you never quite understood what was important to her, and never left a piece of yourself behind to remember you by even when you gave your all.

"So it isn't just about me," she puts together. "Is it?"

You shake your head. "I don't think I've figured it out yet," you admit. "But I didn't want to just… leave. I think I owed you a little more than that. And… I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye."

She nods, kicking her leg against the stage.

"I guess…" You think for a moment, but all you have to dwell upon are feelings. So it's those feelings you call upon. You reach your arm across to her. In the dark, she misses it, so you place it on your shoulder. She doesn't move, but you feel her turn towards you. You face back to where you expect her to be.

"Ike," she whispers, and it's the first time her voice doesn't sound rehearsed. "Something you want to say?"

You close your eyes. "Just thanks for the shoulderblade, again, I guess."

She laughs awkwardly, but you realize you're not the only one out of your depth. "You already thanked me for that."

"That I did."

She shrugs, and your hand comes up with it. "It wasn't even that grand. I didn't have any wrapping for it or anything." You don't admit that it was your favorite part of the transaction- how natural and absent it came to her, how she didn't embarrass you with pomp and circumstance, how she knew exactly what you needed- because despite your intents you figure you can explain that another time. She finishes with "I just didn't want to hurt you too much."

"I appreciate that you care," you add. "I think that's… that's what means a lot to me. You meet a lot of people who care because they feel obligated to."

She nods. "I guess. I don't know…" she drifts off. "I guess I was just thinking of you that day."

You don't respond, touched by the thought. You move your arm off of her shoulder and next to her side. She places a hand on it- while small, it's firm enough to keep you there, whether she knows it or not. Perhaps as well as you've read her, she's read you to the same extent."

You blurt something before you can stop it, because the feeling of her by your side, her legs whimsically lying off the stage like you'd remember enjoying the sunset from next to a pond, above a cliff, or wherever life takes you, and the feeling of her presence dedicated to yours, sitting next to you, peacefully in your arms, trusting you to do better by her than you're used to doing by people. You can't control yourself when all you can think of is how to make things better in a way you're not experienced in.

"I think I just wanted to show you I cared too."

She laughs, and suddenly your shoulders don't feel like they're carrying the world on them.

"I figured that part out."

 **-MoD-**

You don't mention leaving again that day. Somehow you've figured out how not to dampen the mood during a moment you probably will remember longer than… anyone, really. You still don't know how to address the letters that are starting to finally peter out into what you hope will be absolute silence, but they find their way off of your desk and into your suitcase.

You see Jaclyn the next day, still not wearing your armor that's back in your room. You see her talking with Sheik about her next match, more invested than the tournament's frontrunner is. She doesn't address you, and you allow it out of respect for Sheik, but she does smile and make curious, kind eyes at you when you leave something on her desk. For once, her eyes don't seem tired at all- they seem as pleasant and peaceful as the rest of her that you've fallen so deeply for.

After you gather your things, she thanks you for your offering. Even though it's the broken-off handle of your suitcase, you respond with a nod and smile. Before you can leave, however, she tosses an envelope at you with a letter in it. You chuckle, having a far more sordid experience with these than she could imagine, but maybe one you could figure out later.

You're barely outside the room before you've opened up the envelope and are reading what's on the paper within it. No one else knows what's on it, but they could probably read your smile across the entire house and figure it out.

That isn't as bad a prospect as you feared.


End file.
